What is it?

Poetry is the last frontier,
The endless possibilities, we hold them near,
To our hearts, in our souls, it runs so deep,
While we are, it's always here.

Each word written is a word well read,
Spoken to each other, subliminally,
Where we speak a secret language, yet nothing is said,
All of your words console me.

Dying or growing, I can never tell,
Closer to heaven, or closer to hell,
Becoming one, or spreading apart,
A day without this, is the day without art.

And if that day, shall ever come,
That the world forgets, and poetry goes from some to none,
Then my mission becomes what I fear,
That I will die for words held dear.